Renaissance
by Pickled Death
Summary: Uchiha Itachi.


**Title**: Renaissance  
**Author**: Pickled Death  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Rating**: PG  
**Summary**: Uchiha Itachi.  
**Author's Notes**: No pairings, but we all know Itachi harbors a secret love for our favorite shark-boy. (_killed very violently_)

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I killed them, brother dear. Bloodstains on floorboards treaded methodically, screams from voices normally subdued and irritatingly placid, life spilled at your feet and you had no right to cry for them. Salt spewing from eyes and open wounds, and they did not cry for me; they cried for one another, never once considered that the only wrongdoing performed here was by their hands. Twenty, forty, fifty, all obliterated with no more than seventeen flicks of the wrist, seven blinks of the eye, because to assert dominance they wanted a god.

And a god they received.

(Dying winters passed. Thirteen notches in the tree, one for every misgiving. More incidents to be swept under the rug; brother dear, why seek perception from those who are blind?)

(Father on his knees, eyes pleading silently to be spared. Mother met her fate bravely. Mother was a good woman; does your memory recall her sweet song?)

(She sang it until the end.)

None wept for them; raw souls escaped from cold bodies, a scenario unfit in the Uchiha manor yet the standard in a bedraggled battlefield. Who profaned the Uchiha name? Not I; the title was desecrated, a parasite leeching off of my given name. Sanctum invaded, sacrosanct breached, and I alone shall bear the disgrace. It was a mercy of which they were undeserving.

(Pitch black hair untidy and unkempt, dearest brother with probing black eyes. You who never forgot a word. Still so eager to dirty your hands? Bathe your clothes in crimson red, return to me betrayed and bleeding and _hateful_ and ask but one word. Return to me whilst the Sharingan wheel spins like scythes fused at the base; idol-worship buried. Kinsman no more. Ask but one word and I shall respond with many. Walk with purpose, dear brother, but purpose was never enough.)

(I will show you just how far the rabbit hole goes.)

Shivering, cold in the darkness, eyes fixed intently on the campfire. Conquer thyself through passion. Orochimaru is passionate about his power-lust, his sense of self as cryptic and as dark and twisted as the snakes he commands; brother dearest is passionate about killing me.

Emptiness is never sated. Akatsuki knows. Akatsuki understands and does not understand. The feeling is mutual.

Without passion, the living do not live.

Heirs are meaningless, because the footsteps of my legacy are not so easily filled. The cracked headband is no heirloom. I made the clan. I unmade the clan. Chipped fingernails painted black, a nice contrast to chapped ivory fingers; fine lines tracing wide angles beneath narrowed eyes. Weariness. No greater trophy than scars that never heal, no greater medallion or war-prize than the ears netting the distinct sounds of a dying pulse. Lives are candles, so easily snuffed out; extinguish the flames with which I am unfamiliar with the edge of a knife.

Kisame imitates zeal.

Like an actor onstage. A good actor. A machine, he is, able to trick some hapless fool into thinking he possesses fervency of emotion. His cocky words are practiced. His sole security lies in his strength. His soundness of mind lies on the edge of a sword. Akatsuki: we who are fallen from grace, for I find them greater kinsmen than the entirety of the Uchiha clan could ever have hoped to be.

Darkness, half-moon. Kisame sitting in utter silence. Gills fluttering with shallow breaths.

Never break the rules of the night.

Past sunset, no one speaks.

(Teal-gray hair untidy and unkempt like a stained sea meets a stained sky, he with the halfhearted smirk. He who trusts your judgment. Still so eager to listen to the orders of a madman? Bathes his clothes in crimson red, returns inquiring as to the next course of action. Returns with pale yellow ringlets of eyes like stars against a midnight backdrop; don't touch me, never touch me. Never break the rules of the night. Ask but many words and I shall respond with one. Walks where he will, Hoshigaki Kisame, because he and I both know that our lives are in our tainted hands.)

(We are the ferrymen of the river Styx.)

I know you. Here you approach, o rage-blinded affinity, chakra pulsating with a blazing aura, and I know you. The darkness was a chasm, and you are falling. Reek of Orochimaru's assistance, fall faster, strength you never earned fumbling blindly through a body unused to the strain—it will not help you. The weasel is not only a shady creature, but a paranoid one; I have not lain dormant, and my power does not fluctuate or ebb unlike the tide, and unlike the false precaution marked by three punctures above your shoulder blades.

Kisame remains silent as I rise like a beast from its restless slumber. He bristles as you near our campsite, but he admirably never says a word.

Your hands are moving, and the twitchy movements of your fingers register with such ease; thousands of jutsus, tens of thousands, and I can ascertain in a mere instant that yes, you are preparing three shadow clones and each are preparing their own Chidori. Chakra as delicate and flimsy as the common spider's cobweb, and a mind that is a mockery of a fortress.

I know you.

(I know everything.)

Winning against you never had any flavor, dear brother.

Mind is clear, objective never clearer, eyes a shade of onyx. Shattered the bones in your left hand but four minutes ago. Watching as you grit your teeth trying not to scream, to express your agony because you firmly believe baring your weakness would please me. How childishly spiteful—my fingertips far surpass the strength in your entire arm—

(I am a genius, as one would call them—a prodigy, admired by all and envied by most. Touch the sky, dispassionate soul, but the sky holds no secrets from me.)

(The Sharingan is a heavy burden in my skull—pain is nothing, shall I rip my eyes out to slake this greedy thirst—but for what do I lust?)

"Itachi…!"

"Itachi-san!"

Kneeling now, cloak marred by patches of dirt. Uninjured, unhurt, just slightly dazed; vision is fragmented and thoughts are scattered, face upturned—kiss the sky, Uchiha Itachi—oh, yes, I recall now. My throbbing sight refocuses; you are unconscious, a needle imbedded in your neck, and Kisame is standing above me looking almost concerned. A question lingers in the dead quiet of the clearing, and I respond: "Leave Sasuke at Konohagakure. Ensure he has no memory of this encounter."

He understands with a curt nod and turns to heft your limp form over his shoulder. Kinsman no more; never break the rules of the night. Assuredly not insane—I know my boundaries, I know battle-lines and territories and warfronts of carnage and the clamor of clashing blades. I long to shed the Uchiha insignia from my existence.

The phoenix is capable of rebirth, dear brother, if you recall my vague teachings and faerie tales. If you find it in your will to rise from the ashes and strike at me again—I promise you, that if you were to kill me at this very moment, I would have no regrets.


End file.
